Being different isn't a bad thing
by aline.yrs
Summary: Dear diary, Today I want to tell you the story of my life. The story about the love of my life... Just a small diary which was written a long time ago, in the Victorian Era... A time when real love was impossible.


_**A warning: this story contains mentions of alcoholic beverages, suicide and violence.**_

 **This diary belongs to Kurt Elizabeth Hummel  
**

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My name is Kurt Hummel and I was born on 6 of October 1847 in an aristocratic family at the Queen's court. Men in my family during many years were holding a position of a main queen's tailor. The role of who were making all the clothes for the queen from elegant ball dresses to amazing wedding dresses.

Due to our work, my family is extremely wealthy but please don't tell anybody that I said it; my grandfather always told not to speak about our income: "The words are not showing your status. The clothes are". I don't understand the sense of it. We are showing our status everywhere, but we can't speak about it. It is nonsense. We always need to behave like someone is watching us. Because you will never know whom you can trust. And believe me, in this world you can trust only yourself.

But let's continue this monologue about myself: I have two younger brothers and an older sister. This means that now, after my 25th birthday I supposed to step in the sewing business to continue family's legacy. Unfortunately for my parents I don't have a desire to continue the tradition but let's be honest, I don't have any choice. No one of us has.

I have blond hair and green eyes. My passion is languages and books. I know that it is more appropriate for a woman. But what can I do when my heart stops every time I am hearing French. I don't know why you need such information but my sister, the closest person to me on the Earth, said that I need to write a minimum of 10 pages by the end of the week. So right now I am just wasting paper and ink. I am hoping you don't mind. Oh wait, you can't, you are just a notebook.

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 _Day 1: 13th of November 1872_

What is the sense of life? Yes, it is a tough question, especially for such a late time. But my dear diary, have you ever thought about it? Because I don't see any sense here.

One week until I will meet Her Royal Majesty. Of course, you must be thinking what a lucky man am I. Yeah, sure, the luckiest in the world. But I think we are forgetting some details. For example, that I will see these fake smiling faces again and will spend another evening speaking about the weather and how wonderful is the new palace garden. We are also missing out one small detail: I will see HIM. The most careless, selfish, mysterious and… handsome man in the world. I am sure that if somebody is reading this journal right now he thinks that I make a mistake in the word "Her" or maybe that I am not the one who diary you supposed to read. But what can I say, life is full of surprises. Funny, I still believe that it is possible for somebody to read this book, read my life. Just over my dead body, because I can't let this happen. I am not like that I am not it…

But… Can I be honest at least with myself? No, it is impossible and unreal, I just haven't met the right woman yet. But what can I do if all of them are just so fake, so cruel? They thought that they can do anything as long as they are beautiful. Yes, I can admire women beauty and aestheticism. I am just not feeling it. I am just not finding them attractive… I prefer to believe that nothing is wrong with me, but how can I after all these years?

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 _Day 2: 15th of November 1872_

It is me, again. But I don't think that you expected someone else. What can I do if the only one who is not judging me in this world is my own diary? Why I am speaking with an inanimate object?! Oh yeah, I remember, my sister Megan had a "good" idea that it will make me feel better. And I thought that this is the reason why people created alcohol and started going to the theatres. But maybe right now it is more fashionable to diarize? Or maybe it is not and my sister is just trying to save money that I am wasting in the pubs with questionable names? Or maybe she is just trying to help? We will never know because I am not going to ask her. I am sure that she will ask me to read this to her. And I can't. I can't lose the only person who carries about me. Not again…

Maybe I owe you a story after it or maybe not. But I need to speak to someone who is not Meg. I don't want to make her sad… She always begins to be melancholy when I am speaking with her about Mom. But I just miss her. I miss her smell, her voice and especially her sense of humour. And her smile. I can't get it out of my head. She could make even the most boring person laugh, she could make every house shine. However, the only lesson I learned in this world is that everything good has a quick end. Elizabeth Hummel died six years ago, but for me, it still feels like it was yesterday. She was the most understanding, open-minded and nice person on the whole Earth. And she was honest, always honest. That's why she wasn't quite welcome in the High-society. Discriminated for her honesty, soul beauty and her looks by all those ladies, who were jealous that she has it all. She has everything and nothing.

She was happy, but she was suffering. Suffering because of the incomprehension from the other people, suffering from the pain. Because her beloved, instead of thanking God for such a wonderful wife, was trying to change her, trying to make her usual and appropriate for Queen's court and our style of life. We were saving a picture of a perfect family meanwhile every day she was feeling not only the physical pain but also an emotional one. She tried to hide everything from us. However, as we all know that even strongest person can be broken. So two months until her death she gave up, she stopped eating, had closed herself in the home. My dad doesn't care about it, being again in the other city, looking for new patterns. At least he said that what he was doing. I am sure it was another excuse to visit another woman with whom he was happily spending time. If only I knew about it. I would leave any boarding school, run through the whole country just to make sure she was okay. But I never received that letter. When I came home from my education, it was too late. She was already in the deep depression lying like a vegetable. Meggie was trying to help as hard as she can but it wasn't enough. At least she sent our small brothers to the country house with some maids and nannies. So they didn't see that nightmare.

Mother didn't let us speak with her. She still didn't want us to see her weaknesses. She wanted us to have only good memories of her. Maybe that's why she decided to end everything. The police found her dead body in the river. I still can't remember the moment when they came to our house asking to recognize the body. She looked pale, exhausted but still beautiful. I am just hoping that God will give her His mercy. She was such a good person; He must forgive her last sin.

 _My father paid the newspapers to hide the information about her death. It would be a bad rumour about him, the man whose wife had killed herself._

 _He couldn't let this happen. Everyone is thinking that she was ill and died because of a hard disease. "Poor Elizabeth", - they are saying, - "I know she is in Heaven"._

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 _D_ _ay 3: 19_ _th_ _of November 1872_

Dear diary, tomorrow I am finally meeting Her Royal Majesty. I am supposed to be excited my father told me that it is a really important event not only for me but for the whole family. I need to be responsible and accept my first order from Queen Victoria. "First from many", - as my father said.

I was thinking to say that I'm ill or need to visit my old friend. But then my father said that I MUST go. And if I don't go willingly, he will make me. So life didn't leave me the choice. I have no other variants; I will see him tomorrow. And that's why I was nervous in the first place. I haven't seen him for years and my life was good, but something was absent. I can feel the excitement, but I am also afraid. He sent me just one letter during all these years saying that all of this was just fun and nothing else. What if the pain comes back? I still remember how hard it was to get rid of it. How hard it was to get rid of the dreams where we were together. Six years ago I lost not only my mom, but I also lost my friend, my best friend. I lost the major part of my soul which was replaced by a stone.

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 _Day 4: 20_ _th_ _of November 1872_

I just came home. I don't remember how went the evening, what said Her Royal Majesty or anything else. All that I remember was grey like rainy sky eyes. His sight was cold, even colder than in our first meeting.

" _It was my first year in the "Dalton's" academy. And you guessed it was the day when all the fag-masters need to choose new victims, I mean to choose wards. If you don't know what is fagging, you have never been in a boys' private school. Let me explain it to you: it is a tradition thanks to which younger boys are becoming servants to the most senior students (fag-masters) in exchange for protection. I have never understood why it is such an honour to participate in such activities. Most of the time you are somebody's homework, cleaning shoes… At least that what I thought it is._ _So, as I think, you have already understood that he, Sebastian, chose me to be his ward. Everybody was telling me how honoured I was to have such fag-master. I was just trying not to die from fear, because of the cold in his eyes. It was touching my bones. I was lost in these eyes._

 _Soon he showed me that he was not the same as everyone thought. He actually cared about me. He helped me with grades, protected me from other students. It was a hard and long process, but we became friends. Best friends to be honest. I saw in him the kindness and light that he was always hiding from others. I was the first one who decided to take a deep look and saw his soul. He was the first one who had an answer what was wrong with me. He was always telling me: "Being different isn't a bad thing, on the opposite. The most wonderful people in the world are different"._

 _And then I lost him. After he graduated I haven't heard anything about him just one letter. One letter in which he explained that everything which was in the academy, stayed in the academy. The address on the letter was Queen's palace. I thought the night be a servant there and I was right."_

He turned up to be the youngest son of a royal advisor. When I came by to greet him he was cold. When he was presenting me to a woman which was standing near him he said that I had been his classmate during his years in the boarding school. Say that hearing such words broke my soul in pieces is say nothing. How could he forget everything? Was it really him?

But that is not even the worst part. He said that the woman standing near him is his wife. He has a wife and I didn't know about it. Maybe it was just a misunderstanding. I can't believe in it. I will never come to the palace again; I need to leave. Leave as soon as possible. I need to escape from this world.

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 _Day 5: 22nd of November 1872_

I am just glad that my father is not in town right now. If he knew what I was doing he would literally kill me. I am packing my things. Yesterday I bought a train ticket to the Dover, a port city, where I can use a ferry to get to France. And then I will rent an apartment in Paris. I have a sufficient amount of money to live without a work for a year. But I am sure that with my experience, portfolio and education it will be an easy task for me to find a job. It is my chance to forget about everything. It is my chance to create a new life without him, without memories. I know that it is not possible for me to be happy again, but I can't give up. I want to see my Mom in Heaven again. I am already sinful; God will not forgive me again. There is always a limit. I need to be strong just like she was. Somebody rings the doorbell. I will be back in a second…

Dear diary, I am the happiest person in the world. Do you remember when I went to open the door? It was him, it was Bas. I don't know how he knew my address and it is not important. The only thing that matters is that it was him. He didn't say anything at first he just hugged me. I was feeling myself like a seventeen years old boy again. Finally, in the long time I was feeling happy again, was feeling complete.

We were standing on the porch, smiling to each other as fools, when he said: " _Being different isn't a bad thing, on the opposite. The most wonderful people in the world are different_ ". And asked me to be his friend again.


End file.
